idealism isn't too much of a crime
by emilyforprez
Summary: if they were other people, in another situation, with other pasts, it could've been absolutely hilarious.


**A/N: **This was supposed to be a smutfic that was unfinished, but I have no muse for a smutfic, and so this is what you get.

* * *

It could've been funny that it happened like this, if it wasn't for the fact that he was insulting her favorite book and she was, in all rights, extremely angry at him. It could've been funny, yet it wasn't.

And he wasn't supposed to stare at her like that, because she had always thought (somewhere deep inside her twisted head) that Chuck would be the only one to gaze at her with reverence, like a fragile beauty, an ice queen - breakable yet sharp as hell, and ready to commit homicide if the time suited her.

Fortunately for her (or him), she was neither in the mood to participate in her first felon nor in the mood to break. Her breaking point, she found, had been lost back when Chuck _needed some space_. (Of course, _some space_ had indicated _some space to screw his whores_, and _some space to kill his liver_.)

She was sure it was going to be funny later, when she awoke and it wasn't Chuck's hair that grazed her fingertips, but right now, it was serious.

"I'm telling you, Jane Austen was an idealistic writer." His arms were crossed and his chin held high, a stature that made her want to strangle him with --

"There's _nothing_ wrong with being an idealist," she sniffed petulantly, and it wasn't quite clear who was defending who at this moment. She wasn't sure if his favorite author had been Kipling or Poe (although his brooding nature insisted it could be Poe), or King or Patterson. It hadn't really mattered at that point.

"There are a lot of things wrong with being an idealist."

He just _wasn't_ going to let it go, she thought frustratedly.

She crossed her arms and lifted her chin, a defiant state of mind that meant she was going in for the kill. "You say _idealist_ like it rhymes with Stephanie Meyer." She rolled her eyes and continued picking at the stucco wallpaper adorning Dan's dorm room (and somewhere along the lines of delusion she thought, _when did Humphrey become a friend?_) "It's better than reading your poetry that makes me certain you're a tortured soul."

"My poetry is _not_ tortured," he retorted, and although she knew it was a stupid argument to get drawn into, she obliged quickly.

"You write about Serena like you still want her babies." Blair snorted and turned to face the Humphrey, who was clicking his jaw with precision that could have made her nervous if he had been -- (_space to screw his whores, space to kill his liver._)

Dan didn't resort to huffing like a spoiled brat (that was much like Blair's specialty), but instead just shrugged meaninglessly. It could have meant everything and nothing all at once. "Jane Austen writes about love as if it's an amazing thing that cannot be overcome," he said slowly, as if explaining a concept to a small child."

Blair sneered at him, ready to reply with readily-barbed insults.

"That's a lie, and you and I both know it." Dan shrugged as if he cared not for his words, but the words hit Blair with a ton of bricks, and she rolled her eyes at their thinly-veiled meaning.

"You're implying I should get over Chuck," she stated plainly, knowing it wasn't really the time for a question.

Dan shrugged, as if to say, _"more or less."_

Blair scowled. "Thanks for the concern, Cabbage Patch, but I'm really quite fine." (_Space to screw his whores, space to kill his liver, space to make her _miserable...) She emphasized her words with a false smile that could have fooled anyone.

"You're not fooling me."

Well fuck that sentiment.

"Really?" Blair bit out wryly, still feeling _trapped, trapped, trapped_, and there was nowhere to run because suddenly Humphrey looked a lot more like a door locking her in rather than setting her free. (That's what friendship is all about, right? Because Serena was off brooding over Carter-fucking-Baizen and Nate was being a political douchebag, and really, why was she at Humphrey's dorm?)

"No, I just love the pleasure of my own voice." Dan shrugged.

"You're so egotistical it astounds me," Blair replied flippantly, and she knew her offhanded words would get to him sooner or later.

"I try."

There was a beat of silence and Blair was still trapped, still trapped in Dan's dorm room, locked in, and she couldn't run. It seemed like it would be easier if she could just run.

And there was an idea. A smallest sliver of an idea, but still there, like a light bulb flashing incessantly in the darkest pockets of her mind. Blair knew the immediate response - she knew what was going to happen if she tried it, what would happen if she didn't. The options weighed themselves in each hand, teetering ominously.

"I'm over Chuck. He just needed his space." (_Space to screw his--)_

Why was Humphrey staring at her like that?

Dan was gazing at her and she should have felt violated and she should have slapped him across the face and she _should_ have said something witty like, "Copernicus, navigate your eyes away from my face," but she was trapped. And that idea was still flashing incessantly.

"Prove it."

It would have been easier to say Humphrey kissed her first, but she always had that crazy idea.


End file.
